An Caoineadh or The Keen Completed
by Cydira
Summary: Methos finds Duncan reading poetry, they go to a bar and Duncan is forced to deal with the past.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:  
  
Don't own Highlander or anything associated. Don't sue me. I don't have anything to be sued for. Just a little envisioning of how a morose Immortal may respond to a secnario that came to mind as I was reviewing some of my old poetry.  
  
The first poem is from Lord Byron. No copyright, too old. The second poem is anonymous. I've tried to stay as close to the Middle English of the earliest versions I've found. The version I am using is an adaptation from the version that can be found in the Top 500 Poems produced by the Columbia University Press some time during the 90's. If you want full citation, just gimme a shout at my email addy. The third is a traditional lament. It's said to be Irish, it's also said to be Scottish. I'd have to say that the best rendition I've heard of it so far is on Noirin Ni Riain's Cd the Virgin's Lament. I'm sorry that I couldn't type this up with the proper accents and such.  
  
R&R if ya want, I don't care. No pressure. : ) 


	2. For the Sword outwears the Sheath

Methos walked into the dojo and found Duncan sitting beneath one of the windows, looking impossibly comfortable in full lotus and doing something that seemed rather uncharacteristic of the Immortal, reading poetry. As Methos approached, taking in the unexpectedly spacious yet Spartan room Duncan broke the silence and began to read.  
  
So, we'll go no more a-roving  
  
So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.  
  
For the sword outwears its sheath And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.  
  
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.  
  
Duncan looked up from the battered book and watched Methos's face. The older Immortal's expression was a combination of surprise that Duncan was reading poetry and curiosity as to the poem. "Lord Byron," Duncan said in a distant voice, "The man had only seven years left in his life before he wrote this." Methos looked at Duncan incrediously.  
  
"That's not possible," the other said, restraining the urge to grab the book away from his friend, expecting to see Duncan's own handwriting in it, "You've been hiding this new found talent of yours from me." Duncan laughed, it was a short, bitter burst of laughter from a soul that had seen too much pain. "Give me that book," Methos said and Duncan handed it over, fluidly slipping from lotus to standing in a cat like motion. The cover simply read the word poetry. Embossed in gold leaf on a burgundy cover, it was clear to Methos that this book was easily a hundred years old, he started to doubt any new found poetry skills in his friend when he opened the page and found clearly printed words, printed words, not hand written.  
  
"I don't write it, but I read it from time to time," Duncan said, streaching a little and walking to the desk at the back corner of the long room to attend to a few matters before he left with Methos to go to Joe's bar for a drink and listen to the newest group of people for that evenings' open mic session. Joe usually managed to weed out the worst of the bunch, perhaps this night would be better then the last week. As Methos flipped through the book he noticed a few poems with names written by them, some with a woman's name such as Byron's She Walks in Beauty and other's with a man's name, like Wolfe's The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna. Beside the latter, Methos saw another note, this with a date. Methos tapped the page next to the name as Duncan walked over and looked at him. "You knew of this?" he said in a cautiously questioning tone. Duncan shook his head as he grabbed his coat.  
  
"I was there," he said and they walked out the door. "Ahh France, the land of wine, women and Fitz's annoyances," Methos said in a droll tone, startling Duncan out of his thoughts of ground turned to mud due to the amount of blood fallen. At the mention of Fitz, Duncan gave Methos an annoyed glare. The pair spent their entire trip to Joe's bantering back and forth over some prank that Fitz had pulled on Duncan and if Methos was wrong to get Duncan drunk to find out about it. The debate wasn't settled as they walked in. 


	3. God send every gentlemanSuch hawkes, suc...

As Joe greeted them from the bar, Duncan and Methos looked around. It was full for a Thursday night and college being out of session. "Joe, you're getting a reputation," Duncan said, getting a grin from the grizzled man as an ice cold beer was slid infront of him. Joe and Methos exchanged a look and then Joe shrugged. A second beer was set down beside Duncan's and he looked over at Methos. "What was that about?" he asked as some one mangled a country song.  
  
"I wanted to know why he kept giving you beers for free and he said it was because you were the oldest guy he knew. Then I asked why I didn't get any when I was older then you," Methos said with a wry smirk and Duncan rolled his eyes with a groan, seeming to be wondering why he put up with Methos's odd humor. "Hey, you asked," Methos said as he winced at a performer's voice cracking painfully. "Joe missed that one," he muttered into his beer, setting Duncan into a fit of laughter. Methos set the book of poetry down and leafed through it. "So, how long have you been hiding this from me?" Methos said with a smirk. Duncan shrugged and took another swallow of beer to avoid answering the question.  
  
The polite applause from the audience signified the ending of one torment and the possible beginning of another. Duncan glanced back and saw a trio of women standing near the stage as two men walked up there, looking expectantly at one of the three. Duncan nudged Methos in the shoulder. "They signed her up and she didn't know it," he said with a smirk, finding a sense of dark amusement in the entire scene, recalling simmilar incidents in his own past. Methos turned and watched with a mild look of boredom, he'd seen it too many times to get a chuckle out of it, though the furious blush that came over the dark haired woman's face as she was literally dragged on to the stage did make him smile a little.  
  
She glared at the other two women who were laughing and saluting her with raised glasses. With a sigh, she looked at her two companions who shook their heads. The mic picked up her muttered "Fine, I'll do it but I better get a decent shot of whisky out of this." Methos glanced at Duncan who shared the conspiratorial glance with a laugh. The young woman tossed her dark hair and closed her eyes, composing her self as an uncomfortable silence began to fill the room. It was taking too long, maeby there wouldn't be anything out of this trio after all. Finally, she walked a bit closer to the mic and began to speak. "This song is old. Some of you may not like it. Some of you may. It's not some cheezy love song or something else like that. It dates from roughly the Medieval period, I suspect the later portion of that time," she said and looked at her friends on stage.  
  
"It's called The Three Ravens," she said and Methos picked up the book of poetry. He leafed through it on a nagging guess and came to a poem of the same title. As another silence, this one filled with the same pregnant tension of a looming thunderstorm, descended over the bar. A harmony that was more commonly found in a cloister rose from the three performers, the baritone and tenor both presenting an unexpectedly solid basis for the young woman's contra-alto voice. As the three sang, Methos read, mouthing the words.  
  
There were three ravens sat on a tree  
  
Downe a downe, hey downe a downe There were three ravens sat on a tree With a downe There were three ravens sat on a tree They were as black as they might be With a downe a derrie derrie derrie downe downe  
  
The one of them said to his mate Downe a downe hey downe a downe The one of them said to his mate With a downe The one of them said to his mate Where shall we our breakfast take? With a downe a derrie derrie derrie down down  
  
The two Immortals sat in silence as the bar slowly began to murmer with sounds aside from the spellbinding harmony of the trio on the low stage. Behind the bar, Joe nodded in appreciation of the study and practice that went into the piece. As the trio sang, Duncan found himself unnerved to hear what was a tavern song during his early years as an Immortal sung with such solemn and grave harmony. It was the high and clear voice of the woman as she sung with her eyes closed that seemed to perice the veil of the past and lay bare something that had been haunting him in recent days. As he listened to her sing, his thoughts returned to Tessa and how this would have been a voice that she would have loved to hear. Duncan was reminded of Richie, who's death he had thought that he was past after sojourning in France. This young woman was of the same build and apperiance that Richie would deliberately point out and ask Duncan's opinion on, as though trying to get him to see that blonde women weren't the only thing worth looking at.  
  
Methos stared at the page before him and was uncertian how to approach the situation. Here, in Joe's bar, well past the time that this song was popular, stood a group singing with such clarity and knowledge of the song that he had a difficult time believing that they were mortals. In sheer appreciation of their academic knowledge, Methos was silent. It was a rare thing for him.  
  
The trio split into their own parts, the two men singing the chorus lines as the young woman sang the verse. Together, they moved through the rest of the piece. Duncan stared at the singer, ignoring his drink (much to Joe's amusement) and listened with rapt attention to the song as though it was the first time he had ever heard it.  
  
Standing there, a waif beneath a powerful spot light that was reserved for such occasions, the dark haired woman sang. She was composed and still, though her voice throbbed with an almost painful intensity of emotion. The words rang in the crowded room.  
  
Down in yonder greene field  
  
There lies a knight slain under his shield  
  
His hounds they lie down at his feete So well they can their master keepe  
  
His hawkes they flie so eagerly There's no fowle dare come him nie  
  
Downe there coems a fallow doe As great with yong as she might goe  
  
She lift up her bloudy hed And kist his wounds that were so red  
  
She got him up upon her backe And carried him to earthen lack  
  
She buried him before the prime She was dead her selfe ere even-song time  
  
With the final verse, she opened her eyes and their distant gaze focused and sharpened, fixing on the two Immortals. With chilling directness, the young woman sang, as though to them,  
  
God send every gentleman  
  
Downe a downe hey downe a downe God send every gentleman With a downe God send every gentleman Such hawkes, such hounds, and such a leman  
  
With a downe a derrie derrie derrie downe downe  
  
Silence filled the bar with the final verse, sung in solo by the young woman. In that silence she stepped from the stage. 


	4. An Caoineadh The Keen

Later in the night, after the young woman had received a few anonymous whiskies from some well wishers, she approached Joe. Her voice had a very slight drawl to it, for she had enough liquor in her to be mildy intoxicated. She spoke quietly with him and he thought for a moment. As the young man in the over sized cowboy hat and carrying a rhinestone studded guitar got up to butcher another country song, Joe winced in anticipation of the protest. Making a hand gesture at one of the waitresses, he hastily poured another beer to send over to the would be cowboy and motioned the slightly tipsy woman towards the stage.  
  
The hasty change in musical line up was met with no end of amusement from her friends until she said a quiet word to them. They suddenly went from laughter to seriousness and a few gave her consoling looks. Methos who was plesantly buzzed from the several beers he had consumed turned and poked Duncan in the arm. "Look, she's back up there," he said, grinning broadly, "What do you think she'll sing next?"  
  
Duncan looked at Methos and grinned, unable to help the response that formulated and escaped him before he could stop it. "Roll out the barrel," Duncan said before bursting out in to laughter at the horrified look on Methos's face. The young woman walked to the mic with much more confidence and took hold of the mic stand and pulled the mic free. She looked defiantly at the crowd.  
  
"This is not some little piece for the sake of being pretty or to sing in another language. Some of you will recognize it by simply the sound while others may actually understand it," she said, with the last flashing a glance at Duncan, "This is for a friend of mine who died." As some of the more inebreiated began to hurl a few snide comments, the young woman returned the mic to the stand and closed her eyes.  
  
She took a deep breath and her second song stunned Duncan to a point where he dropped the pilsner in his hand and said in a soft gasp "An Caoineadh." He hadn't heard it sung since his first death, and those that were weak attempts to repeat it hadn't the same raw grief and torment as this one did. The lament stunned him and broke the fragile walls of denial he built between himself and the deaths of Tessa and Richie.  
  
The song: (In Gaelic) Is airiu! Agus a leanbh Cad a dheanfaidh me? Ta-tau ar shiul uaim Agus airiu!  
  
Agus anuraidh! Nil duine ar bith agam! Is airiu! Agus me liom fein Da mbeithea go moch agam Agus och! Och! Ochon airiu - gan thu!  
  
(In English) 'S ariu Oh child of mine And what shall I do? You've been gone a long time 'S ariu And a year ago now, now there is no one 'S ariu And now I'm on my own If I had you at the break of dawn - Agus och! Och! Ochon ariu! - without you! 


End file.
